


Never Sleep, Never Die

by ShadowInEden (EffingEden)



Category: Vampire Diaries - L. J. Smith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-03-22
Updated: 2007-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:26:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffingEden/pseuds/ShadowInEden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Margaret dreams of darkness and angels...</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Prelude - Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Margaret dreams of darkness and angels...

The darkness called to her.

She would go to the darkness of the woods at night, when she told Aunt Judith she was going to Felicity’s, to spend hours gazing up at the night sky. There was a clearing with a massive oak that was perfect for stargazing. It was almost hypnotic, the way those blazing specks would turn above her. She always got a thrill from knowing she could see them, and they couldn’t see her.

Why did this knowledge send tingles down her arms and spine, here, out in the wilderness and quiet of the night, when all it did in day was make her bleed inside? It was slowly destroying her, the way people looked at her and commented on her likeness to Elena. Like all they saw was her long-gone sister and not her. And she tried – oh, how hard she tried. Tried to love her sister, tried not to hate her, tried to not hate herself and all those who saw someone she wasn’t. She tried to prove she was her own person. Tried to make Aunt Judith proud of her.

But nothing worked. Like hell it did. All day she was weighed down with expectations. All night, too, when she couldn’t escape. Being out in the woods, under the clear, star spattered sky soothed her. The darkness held her close and understood. When she fell asleep out here she would dream of stars caught in that calming dark, the darkness made solid and human and strong and perfect. It would hold her close and whisper she was worthy of her own name. Of being Margaret. Of being herself. She liked that.

But then… she dreamt of Elena.

The last time she had seen Elena looking so alive was when she had said she was her guardian angel.

She dreamt she was lying in bed, just woken up because something had touched her cheek. And there she was. Her guardian angel, looking as bright and lovely as one of the stars she watched.

There hadn’t been much to the dream. A hug, a brush of lips against her hair, her name whispered with such sadness it made her heart break.

When she woke, she didn’t get up. She couldn’t move.

Her world was broken.

How could she dream something… so real, she knew Elena smelt like honeysuckle and wine? That her hair was as soft as down and smooth as silk? That her tears were like hot rain on her skin?

How could she dream something like it – more real than reality?

She stopped going on her night walks.

She grew afraid of the dark and the places it lingered.

She stopped looking at the stars.

She pushed people away, afraid they would know.

She stopped trying.

She closed her imagination.

Would it be enough to stop the dreams? She was starting high school soon. She had to keep strong; so many people would look at her and think of Elena. If she was, then maybe she would dream of her sister again.


	2. 1. Graveside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grave visit and a first-time encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from TamingTheMuse: Trollop (#34)

The air held a chill that bit at her nose and stung her ears. Winter was fading, and green spikes were pushing through the hard earth, her breath curling in the still air as little licks of mist that melted almost before they were noticed. It was almost spring. She liked that the sun was still up as she walked into the graveyard.

There was no one about, and the only sound was of distant cars, the stream and the warning call of a bird. She knew graveyards were meant to be spooky, but it didn’t give her trouble to walk through here. Maybe because she always came through, after school, and she had gotten use to the rows of carved stone.

She made her way up the hill, her eyes going from the gravestones to the woods. Now, that place was eerie. It held a weight, an age, a… she hesitated, even to say to herself… a mind. She looked away. It was silly to think a wood had a conscience. It was only imaginary. It wasn’t really looking at her.

She repeated this to herself, over and over in her head, a mantra to keep her fantasies in check. She reached the grave before she believed her own words. She looked at the stone blindly for a moment, not reading it, not moving. She blinked, stepped closer and touched it. It was cold and smooth and real. “Hello, Elena,” she murmured, kneeling carefully.

She sighed, and looked over the graveyard again before she started. “You didn’t miss much today. School was dull as ever. Kimberly called me a piss-weasel for some reason. It felt good to call her a trollop, but the way she looked, I think it was lost on her. She is so easily confused.” She smiled and ducked her head, hiding her amusement. “I have to go soon. Aunt Judith worries, you know.” She lifted her head, raking her blonde hair back.

Her eyes scanned the graveyard again nervously, and her mouth twisted down. In a whisper, she confessed, “I had another dream of you last night.” She couldn’t look at the stone with her sister’s name in it, so she looked at the woods. They looked back. She let out a breath, chills rippling over her skin, and she turned her attention away from them, watching to the overcast sky instead. “I wish… I wish I didn’t. I miss you so much, Elena. I cried when I woke up. We danced with each other. I’m as tall as you, you know. There were two guys there, too, but I couldn’t see their faces. We had the first dance together. We floated through stars.” Her vision seemed to shiver, her eyes were filled with tears. She cursed under her breath and rubbed them away. “It’s so real, Elena. So real.” She was scared of her own imagination, if it could create something so detailed and perfect as that dream.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the memory of that night, taking her hand from the gravestone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She rose, and turned – and bumped into a very solid, very warm body. She gasped in surprise, already stepping back. It was a man – young, maybe twenty, with dark hair and wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses? In winter? “Who are you?” she asked, her voice several pitches higher than normal.

He smiled, and tilted his head towards the grave. “A friend paying his respects. You would be… Margaret?” He pulled out the ‘m’ into a hum that made her skin shiver and her stomach twist.

She said nothing, uneasy and unsure of herself. She was sure no one was in the graveyard… even if he had just entered, he would have had to run to get so close to her… and she hadn’t heard a sound.

Her silence didn’t seem to disturb him, but his gentle teasing tone was changed for one of concern as he asked, “Have you been crying?”

Her hand went to her cheek, feeling the dampness still lingering. “It’s the cold,” she replied softly, lying.

The sunglasses stopped her from seeing his eyes. Did he believe her? She didn’t care, she told herself. He was no one. “I have to go.” She walked around him, back to the path. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her. No, it was her imagination. It was always her imagination.

She was halfway down the hill when she felt fingers stroke through her hair. She jumped and spun – but… there wasn’t anyone. The guy… he wasn’t anywhere. She touched the back of her head, stroking over the touch – just to be sure she had felt fingers. Had she… or was she imagining it again?

She turned, and ran.


	3. Interlude 1.5: Safety

It was art. She hated art. She sighed and sat in her usual place, watching the other students enter. Kimberly was among them, gossiping as usual. It seemed to be about Ferrari’s today. She rolled her eyes, not understanding how someone’s mouth could move so much and say so little. She turned her eyes to the front, where the teacher stood, waiting.

When they were all seated, the teacher clapped his hands to draw his students’ attention. “Today, I want you to show me what ‘safety’ is to you. The emotion, the place, the person… whatever. Let your minds run free.” He started handing out sheets of A4 with encouraging smiles.

She took one, and got out her pencil. Safety? Great. She stared at the sheet, feeling lost. Her fingers rolled the pencil she held as she searched her mind for something to draw. She had plenty of ideas, thinking of one wasn’t a problem. But… they weren’t right. They weren’t safe. They were dangerous. If she drew them… they might…

She stopped herself. It was a child’s fear. She knew pictures could come to life. How could they? It. Never. Happened.

She repeated it, over and over, but she didn’t believe herself.

The teacher was slowly walking around the class room, nodding and commenting on the other student’s art, sometimes helping a little to draw a line or add a smear of colour. He was only two desks away from her, and she hadn’t even started.

She rolled the pencil, her lip tugging down at a corner. Something safe… something that wasn’t a part of her imagination. She lowered her hand, and started to sketch.

The teacher moved on to the next student, praising the detail and skill shown. She glanced at the piece, seeing only faceless shaped entwined. He suggested where improvement could be done, and how to how best to accomplish it. He moved on again, and it was her turn.

He watched her a moment, then asked, “…I’m sorry, Margaret, but… I don’t see the relevance this has to the assignment.”

This got the attention of the gossiping students to either side of her, and more than a few pencils stilled. She replied, “The assignment was ‘Safety’, right? This is where I feel safest, sir.”

The teacher sighed. “No matter what assignment I give, you keep managing to draw that graveyard. You have skill, Margaret, but draw something else. I will fail you if you hand in another of these pieces. To be an artist, you have to expand and stretch yourself.”

He took the sheet from her desk and turned it over to its blank side, and went to the next student.

She stared at the sheet, feeling lost.


	4. 2: Early Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another visit, another encounter

“Hey,” she murmured softly in greeting, touching the headstone. “It’s me.” She didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, too self-conscious despite the graveyard being deserted. She had thought there was no one around yesterday…

There was a fresh flower laid by the stone; a rose, deep red an already wilting on the edges. “Did he leave this for you?” she asked, picking it up. The end of the stem was cut cleanly, so it was either bought or he was a gardener. The petals on one side were damp and a little crushed, so it had been that guy. She didn’t think her sister would have gotten more visitors last night. Not even she was that popular.

She put it back, and looked over her shoulder at the woods. They weren’t watching her. It was in her head. It was in her head.

She looked back at the grave, and quietly said, “Zoë is coming back tomorrow. She’s so lucky, going to Europe. She’s in Paris today. Remember when we were in Paris? You were so happy.”

She touched the cold stone again, saying in a thick voice, “I’ll come by tomorrow, with Zoë, okay?” She sniffed and turned, walking a few steps before she saw something move. She stopped, staring. It was him – again. Coming out from the ruined church.

He had seen her, too, and waved. She stood still, not responding. He stopped a few feet away from her. “Do you… come here every day?” he asked, as if he didn’t believe it.

“It’s on my way home,” she said defensively, not answering his question. “Why… who are you?” He looked too young to be her sister’s friend. Bonnie and Meredith had never mentioned Elena knowing any boy apart from Matt and… “Are you Stefan?” she asked, anger flaring sharply. The bastard had run away. He had been a bad influence, Aunt Judith had said. Bonnie and Meredith had said she had loved him, but he never visited. That wasn’t love.

But the guy laughed, so suddenly she pulled back. He sounded very amused when he managed to get out, “…S-Stefan? Am I… Stefan?” He chuckled some more, his hand on his mouth and he shook his head. “No. No, thank God. I’m Damon. I should have introduced myself yesterday, but I was… distracted.” The smile he said it with was flirtatious, playful and just a little dark. It made her tingle and very uncomfortable.

She looked away, running her fingers though her hair, and she muttered dismissively, “Whatever.” She kept her eyes down as she circled around him to get past.

However, he turned and kept pace with her. “So your still living in that little house, with the quince tree outside?”

“It got cut down,” she told him shortly, not wanting to encourage conversation.

It didn’t seem to faze him, asking, “Are you still in the room at the top of the stairs?”

She stopped, and looked at him. He stopped, looking back at her. “Why the _hell_ do you want to know where my bedroom is? You’re as bad as Tyler – and why are you following me?”

“Well, I…” His face – what wasn’t hidden under sunglasses, at least – went blank. Then his lips pressed together. “What… exactly… do you mean, ‘as bad as Tyler’?” His voice was a soft growl, and she could feel his anger.

She was about to reply when a heavy drop of water fell on her head. She heard more drops patter against gravestones and dead leaves, the rain getting surprisingly heavy. “Crap!” she cursed, and started to run. She was going to get soaked. She heard Damon running after her. Together they ran past the remains of the church, past ugly and elaborate headstones and out onto the road.

There, right by the entrance, was a sleek, black Ferrari. She made to run past it, but Damon yelled to her, “Get in!”

She looked at him, and saw him pulling out the keys, unlocking it with a press of the fob. The car flashed and chirruped, and he opened the driver’s door. “Are you going to get in or not?” he asked, shouting over the roar of the rain.

She shouldn’t. She didn’t know him. There was a flash, and thunder boomed not a moment later. She darted to the passenger door and got in.


	5. 3: Car Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon takes Margaret home

The car doors clunked shut, muting the roar of the rain to a distant hiss and louder patter of drops striking the roof. Their breathing sounded loud in the closed space, and Margaret felt too self-conscious to look across at Damon. She tried to concentrate on catching her breath, but it was difficult when she knew he was watching her.

She couldn’t stand the quiet anymore, and said too loudly, “You can’t have been Elena’s friend. You’re too… young. You would have been, what –” she looked at him then, trying to judge his age, “-eight, ten, when Elena died?”

He smiled grimly, and murmured, “I’m older than I look.” He turned away to look in the rear-view mirror, trying to brush the water from his dark hair. He sighed in defeat and took off the sunglasses, dropping them by the gear stick. She was right; he did look like he was in his early twenties.

“Really?” she said, sounding incredulous. “Well, how old are you?”

He turned and grinned at her, his teeth white and perfect. “Five hundred.” His eyes were dark, filled with specks of a lighter colour. They were like pieces of the night sky.

Those were some good contacts.

She raised an eyebrow. “…Okay,” she sighed, agreeing with him rather than argue. If he wanted to keep it a secret, she didn’t care. There was another flash of lightning, thunder a hungry rumble a moment after. The storm was real close. “Are we going to get out of here, or what?”

“Of course.” Keys rattled as he turned them over in his hand, searching for the right one for a moment. “Frightened of the thunder?” he asked casually as he turned the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, purring with power.

“No. I don’t mind storms.” This one, though, had blown up fast. There wasn’t a mention of rain, let alone a spring storm on the weather forecast this morning. “My Aunt, she worries.”

“Ah.” He pulled out onto the road, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His expression was perplexed. “Maple street… hummm.” Margaret watched him, wondering if she should give him directions, but he took the right turn, so she kept quiet.

The silence seemed to stretch, awkward and unnerving. She gave in to her desire to break it by asking, “How do… did you know Elena? Why did you pick now to visit?”

He turned his head ever so slightly towards her, his eyes leaving the road to watch her sidelong. It made her feel even more uncomfortable, and she looked away to watch the rivulets of water run off the windshield. He replied sounding a little annoyed, though about what, she didn’t know. “I dated your sister a few times, but she wasn’t overly fond of my affection. She favoured Stefan.” He spoke the name with venom, resentment clear in his tone. He was quiet then, as if getting himself under control, before saying, “And I… have business in Fell’s Church. I do visit Elena regularly, though my schedule is increasingly busy.” His wording was… curious. As if he was stepping around something.

She let it pass, but Damon seemed to be concentrating on navigating the town streets. She looked at him again. He looked good enough to model… but not tall enough. Looking at his car, and his clothes – imported and well cut – he was someone rich. She spoke without meaning too. “What is it that you do?”

But he’d had enough of her probing questions. “Is this an interrogation? If I answer incorrectly do I get tied to the stake and burnt?” There was an accent to his words when he got angry. She couldn’t place it, but… it was exotic.

His sudden anger seemed to fill the car. Had she hit a nerve, or was he always this snappish? “Sorry,” she murmured, turning to look out of her window at the familiar Victorian houses. She hugged herself – but only because she was cold, she told herself. She was, after all, dripping wet with freezing rain.

He pulled over with a sigh of frustration, stopping but keeping the engine running. “No, don’t be. I’m not use to dealing with… those left behind. I’m… investigating someone for a friend.”

Margaret turned back, frowning. “So… you’re a PI? Aren’t you a little… conspicuous in this penismobile?”

There was a shocked silence, then Damon started to laugh. He laughed as is it was the last thing he had expected her to say. She smiled, pleased he hadn’t been offended, and shook her head. “Well, it is!” she said, almost defensively. She looked over his head and saw her home. He really did know where she lived.

“It… is… not!” Damon laughed. His laugher eased into chuckles and then into silence almost too quickly. His eyes stayed silted with amusement, as he looked at her, and purred, “I am perfectly confident about myself. I just love these vibrations.”

She looked confused a moment, and he smirked evilly before revving the powerful engine. The seats shivered delicately, and Margaret’s eyes widened at the sensation. “Perv!” she accused loudly before opening the door and climbing out into the rain.

She slammed the door shut and trotted to the pavement – looking around when she heard the engine die and another door open. He got out, ducking his head, still wearing the lewd grin. She yelled over the rain, “If you think your coming in –”

“What if I promise to behave?” He said it was a purr that should have been lost in the rain, but she heard it, and it shivered though her like the chill from the rain.

She should say no. She shouldn’t let him in. He stepped closer, and drawled softly, “Can I come if I’m good?” He sounded almost innocent when he said it, but she shivered with a warm thrill, as if his meaning was something else entirely.

She felt trickle onto her lip, and she licked it off, before replying, “Fine. Just… for a while, though.” She turned and went to the door. He followed after shutting his door and locking it, his feet crunching over the gravelled driveway after her.


	6. 4: An Old Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon goes missing in the Gilbert house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tamingthemuse: Bouncy ball (#35)

“Aunt Judith!” She shouted into the house. “I’m back!” She held the door for the dark, sodden Damon behind her. He looked around as he shrugged off his jacket, his curiosity apparent.

“Oh, good,” came her Aunt’s flustered voice from up the stairs. As she spoke she came down. “I was worried, you out in this storm. There was nothing in the weather reports – oh… who’s you’re friend, Margaret?”

Margaret, who had been taking off her shoes looked up at her Aunt, who had hesitated halfway down. She shook her head, denying that association. “He’s not my friend, I found him, by Elena. He said he was a friend of hers. It started to rain and… we got wet.” She pulled off her other shoe before saying, “His name is Damon.”

“Oh, yes! I remember now! Damon Smith! My husband’s friend. How are you doing? We haven’t seen you in an age! Oh, dear, look at you, you’re drenched through and through! Margaret, run upstairs to the airing cupboard and get a towel or two for our guest. You’ll be able to stay for dinner?” She herded him into the den with her barrage of good-natured questions, which he tried to reply to, sounding a little overwhelmed.

Margaret smirked. Serves him right for not going away. She took off her own coat and draped it over the banister to dry before going to get the towels.

She decided to change while she was there – Damon could wait five minutes for a towel. She was wet to the skin. The rain had been a real cloudburst. She turned on her radio as she peeled off her shirt and pants, then quickly slipped out of her underwear and into some new. She put on another shirt – charcoal this time - not burgundy, with longer cuffs, and tight grey jeans that were too long in her leg. She put a blue towel over her head to stop any rainwater dripping on her clothes and flicked off the radio before heading downstairs.

She went into the den, but there was no one there. There was a clatter of pots in the kitchen, so she went in there. It was Aunt Judith, alone and preparing dinner. “Aunt Judith? Where’s Damon?”

She glanced over her thin shoulder at her niece and said, “Oh, you were taking so long with the towels, he went to get one himself.”

There had been no one on the landing when she had came out of her bedroom. She hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs – even over the radio the floorboards creaked. “Oh, I’m sorry. I needed to change. I’ll go find him.”

“All right. And put your wet things in the hamper in the bathroom!” she called after her niece as she went back into the hallway.

“Uh-huh,” Margaret murmured under her breath, walking back up the stairs. When she got back on the first floor, she sighed. This was annoying. She checked in the bathroom first, but he wasn’t there, and none of the towels had been touched. Meaning he was probably either in one of the bedrooms or he had run away.

She opened her Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom door first, but it was empty. She had hopped he would be – Elena’s room was locked and that left only Margaret’s own room. And if he has snook in there between when she had come out and now, he was a really sick perv. She froze in horror, remembering her underwear on the floor.

Oh, shit.

She quickly went to her door, and put her hand on the door. Oh god, oh god… She flung the door open, ready to yell if he was doing anything nasty… but there was no one.

She moaned out loud with relief, going in to pick up her stuff.

He really must have run away then.

She dumped her wet clothes in the bathroom hamper, and went to go downstairs – but then she glanced at the landing again.

Elena’s door seemed to press against her eyes.

She hesitated. Maybe… maybe…

No, it was locked. Aunt Judith had it locked the night she had seen Elena’s ‘ghost’ in the quince tree. No one had been in there for years.

She found herself standing before it, holding the door handle.

This was stupid. He couldn’t be in here.

She twisted the handled pushing firmly, not believing – the door opened.

But it had been locked!

The door swung out of her hand, and for the first time in years, she was seeing Elena’s bedroom.

The bay window with blue curtains and the upholstered window seat. The Victorian mirror over the cherrywood dresser and the tiny fireplace. The bed, the alarm clock, the red kimono left in a puddle of red silk on the floor…

It was… it was…

She grabbed the doorframe, needing something to hold onto. The closet door was open – there was a slight noise and Damon’s head poked out from it. “Are you well?”

It wasn’t concern in his voice – it was mocking disbelief. As if he didn’t think people actually got sick. Not answering, she snarled, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m…” he winced, “…fulfilling a promise. Of a sort.” He walked across the room and sat on the end of the bed.

She looked at him from the doorway, and said nastily, “You promised to come out of the closet? I so knew it. No one like you could possibly be straight.”

He stared at her, his expression a confused cross between pained and amused. “…No. You’re sister once told me… of her trip with you to Paris. How much of that do you remember?”

Margaret shrugged. “Not a lot,” she answered, vague and truthful. She didn’t like discussing it with anyone, let alone someone she met only yesterday. “And really – why are you in here – it’s been locked for…”

He shrugged. “It opened easily for me. Are you going to stay there? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what she fell asleep and woke up looking at?”

She didn’t reply, dropping her gaze. He was just teasing again. She heard the bed creak as his weight shifted – she couldn’t help but look up again. He has moved up the bed, and was lying down, his hands trailing suggestively over his chest. His dark eyes were narrowed and watching her watching him. She felt herself blush and she looked away, demanding, “Would you get off my _dead sister’s_ bed?”

The bed creaked again, and he moved to the window, watching the rain. After a moment his voice purred, “Do you remember… on the trip… a toy your aunt wouldn’t buy for you?”

Her nails bit into the wood doorframe, and she replied “I was four. I don’t remember.” It was a lie – she knew there was a toy she had fallen in love with. It was in the airport – it was why Aunt Judith wouldn’t buy it. To get her to stop squalling, Elena had said if she behaved, Santa would see and would make sure to get it. It had worked – of course it had. She had been four.

“Elena promised it to you. She told me she had, one night. I just though…” He shrugged and turned, coming towards her. “…seeing as I was here… she wanted you to have it, not to have it locked in a room.”

He held out his fisted hand, and raised his eyebrows at her when she didn’t play along. She made a resigned sound and extended her hand, palm up. He dropped the object into her hand – it was a little heavier than she expected, and it was smooth and round. She looked down at it, perplexed, then back up at Damon, with an expression of wonder. “It’s… the wrong colour.” She dropped her fake expression, and smiled a little ruefully.

His eyebrow rose. “I thought pink was a very becoming colour.”

“Then maybe you should wear it more often.” She stepped around him, into Elena’s room, going to the cherrywood dresser. It was just like she remembered it – the perfume, the make-up, the photos in silver frames… she put the toy by a half-empty bottle, holding it a moment to make sure it wouldn’t roll.

She turned around and walked back to the door, to Damon who had turned to watch her. “Here.” She handed him the towel she carried. It was a soft pink shade.

He hesitated, then took it, shaking it open and twisted it around his head, making it into a magnificent turban. She struggled not to laugh. He glared at her, then offered an arm. “Come, Margaret, let us go back downstairs so you’re aunt won’t think we’ve been stolen by monsters.”

“Uh-huh.” She stepped around him again, ducking her head so he didn’t see her grin, and walking first across the landing to the stairs. She looked back to see Damon pulling Elena’s door shut, then turned to follow her.

Elena made the strangest friends.


	7. 5. A New Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret's friend arrives home late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tamingthemuse: Only fools fly at midnight (#37)

“Margaret!” came a high-pitched squeal of joy. She looked up from the ground, and grinned to see her best friend run to her.

“Zoë!” she crowed in reply, spreading her arms to catch the hurtling body. As the shorter girl wrapped her arms around her waist, she curved her arms around the tanned girl’s neck. They hugged tightly, Zoë dropping her head the short way to Margaret’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” Margaret murmured to the smooth dark hair tickling her face.

“You should have come,” her friend replied. “You know Daddy would have loved you to come with us. You’re like family.” She moved slightly, almost nuzzling Margaret’s neck like a cat.

She laughed, saying, “What, and cost my Aunt a fortune in long distance calls?” She shook her head, squeezing her friend a little as she said, “You know I couldn’t…”

“Hummmm,” Zoë purred, sounding as if she didn’t believe. She lifted her head and cool grey eyes met pale amber-green. “I bought you a present.”

Margaret’s blonde eyebrow rose, releasing the shorter girl, who reached into an inside pocket, and pulled out a box. It was bound in black velvet and looked exactly like a ring box from a jewellers. Both eyebrows rose and Margaret asked, “Are you proposing?”

For a moment, Zoë smiled evilly, then laughed, shaking her head. “Imagine what Judith would say. Nah, it’s just a little gift.” She opened it, revealing a slender silver ring, too small for a finger. There was a blue stone dangling from it in a tear shape.

Margaret frowned. It was familiar. “Isn’t this…” She looked at Zoë’s ears – she always wore one earring exactly like this one, saying it was because Madonna did in an old movie she watched with the mother. But she still wore it. “…oh.”

Zoë’s face fell. “We’re friends, aren’t we? I just thought you’d like to have something just for us. It’s cool if its not your thing, though…”

Margaret smiled. “I’d love to wear it.”

Zoë squealed happily, and pulled it out to thread it through Margaret’s lobe. It felt heavy and cool, but it didn’t matter when Zoë’s face lit up like that.

“Where were you this morning?” Margaret asked, linking their arms together and turning them out of the school car park. “I thought you were coming back on the night flight.”

“Ah well, you know what they say,” Zoë chirped happily. Margaret tilted her head, and she elaborated, “ ‘Only fools fly at midnight!’”

Margaret laughed, and said, “Who says that?”

Zoë smirked and tossed her dark head, refusing to answer.


	8. 6: Strange Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret and Zoe see someone from afar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tamingthemuse: Cafeteria (#42)

They walked up the hill to Elena’s grave, sharing Zoë’s ipod between them. Zoë had told her about the jaded romances she’d had all over the continent, almost boastful in the way she spoke about them. The real boasting would come tomorrow, surrounded by people eager to know every breath of gossip Zoë carried. It was masterful, the way her friend used words to draw everyone in.

She wasn’t trying right now, too eager to have attention on herself, not just her exploits.

When Zoë noticed her quietness, she stopped mid-word and looked at her carefully. “Margaret? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

There was a veiled emotion under the concern. She couldn’t put a label on it, and shook her head in reply. “No, I’m just… thinking, really.”

Zoe hissed, her eyes narrowing, saying playfully, “You know thinking is unhealthy for you. Who were you thinking of? What have you been up to while I’ve been away?”

She bit her lip and wouldn’t look at her friend. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing! You’ve kissed someone, haven’t you? Who? I’m getting jealous, now! Who? Who!” She skipped in front of the taller girl, eyes running over her features as if reading the answers on her face.

Margaret grimaced. “I didn’t… it’s nothing!”

Zoë didn’t move, continuing her probing attack. “Was is that boy in Biology? Fred something. Or that one in the year above us who sits two tables down in the cafeteria – Fletcher? Or was it… a girl?” The last question started as a stage whisper and ended a crow loud enough to echo faintly, the shorter girl beginning to giggle wildly.

Margaret pulled the small earphone out, not wanting to listen to Zoë’s music anymore. She sidestepped her friend and carried on up the hill. She hated when Zoë acted like that, not listening and pushing, taking it too far.

“Awww, Magz…” Zoë called after her. The taller girl didn’t slow, forcing Zoë to trot to catch up. “I’m only playing, don’t be mad. If you don’t want to say, that’s fine.”

‘Funeral for a Friend’ music murmured out of the dangling earphone, sounding distant and tinny and very wrong. Margaret glared at her friend and said, “Turn it off.”

Zoë did, looking awkward and apologetic. Margaret turned and continued up the hill, slower now. Zoë caught up just as they got to Elena’s grave. There was another rose by the first, fresh and as deep red. “Did you put those there?” Zoë asked.

“No,” Margaret muttered, twisting to look at the woods. She stood, then slowly turning towards the older part of the cemetery, looking at the church. Zoë looked too – and gasped when a figure walked out of the ruins. It was Damon, again. This was too strange.

He had seen them, and brought his hand up into a salute before heading out of the graveyard. What was so fascinating about that old church?

Zoë was pale when she turned to Margaret. “He… he waved…”

Margaret shrugged. “What’s wrong with waving?” She touched the headstone, the cold stone damp with the light rain earlier that day.

“…He’s the one who left the flowers. Oh, God, Margaret, he was a suspect!”

“What?” She turned, looking at the shorter girl in confusion. “A suspect of what?”

“Elena’s death! Him and that Stefan both disappeared after Elena was found that second time. Don’t have anything to do with him, Magz. Innocent people don’t run.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “You watch too many murder mysteries. Elena died in an accident – there aren’t any suspects in accidents.” Her tone was bitter and she pulled her hand from the gravestone, fisting it. “She drove off a goddamn bridge.”

She didn’t feel like talking to her sister anymore, and went back to the path and where Zoë waited. Her friend seemed to realise she had annoyed Margaret again, and didn’t push the topic. Good – Margaret hated the conspiracies behind Elena’s death. Wasn’t it enough that she was in the ground?

“Come on. Tell me more about Paris.” Zoe was reluctant at first, but soon fell back into her habit of talking about herself. It wasn’t until they were almost out of the graveyard that the big, sports car engine rumbled into life, only to grow distant quickly. She was sure it was Damon’s car.


	9. 7: Grocery List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret goes to get groceries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tamingthemuse: Narcissus (#43

_Grocery List;  
Milk (two semi-skimmed, one fresh)  
Tea bags (check type – NOT DAJEELING!!!)  
Eggs (free range)  
Garlic cloves (???)  
Pasta shells (wholemeal)  
Chicken (a whole one)  
Nuggets  
Lettuce (Iceberg, not Rocket)  
Five tins Soup (any)  
Pizza (no pepperoni)  
Oven chips  
Gummy laces  
Cough syrup (CHERRY!!!)  
Melon (not grapefruit – they are NOT giant grapes. Is false advertisement)_

Margaret skimmed over the list again, double-checking she needed only one more item from it to appease her Aunt. She looked back at the shelves and stated to browse where one of the superstores attendants said the garlic cloves would be. She nudged aside a cardboard box of sliced almonds, and saw a solitary box right at the back. She sighed, and reached in blindly, her arm disappearing up to her elbow. Her fingertips brushed the small box, and she leaned in further.

She smelt him before she heard or saw him. It was almost noxious, heavy with sweat and cigarette ash, and cheep beer and oil, underlined with a wild animal smell that caught in the back of the throat.

“Hey, Mag-gie.” His heavy breath stirred the hairs at the back of her head. She suppressed a shudder when she felt a light touch run down her spine.

She grabbed the box, and pulled her arm free, stepping away before spinning to face Tyler and growled, “Back off, creep!”

He gave her a slow once over, and she sneered at him in disgust, reined in the urge to spit on him. He was almost twice her age, being in his late twenties. Meredith had warned her that he had attack her once, but someone – the mysterious boy no one talked about– had beaten him up. She had also warned that Margaret had grown to look too much like Elena, apart from the hair and eyes. Bonnie – they both made points of ‘visiting’ her at least once a month – had remarked they had the same bone structure, but the younger sister had lost her white-blond hair over time to an annoyingly stubborn mousy-brown, and her eyes had darkened to a storm grey. Everyone did it – contrasting her and her sister constantly.

It made frustration and anger well up inside her – no one saw her for her achievements, only lacking Elena’s. Elena, whose greatest feat was being the ‘Spirit of Fells Church’ or something equally as mind-numbingly dumb. A snide little voice inside whispered, _Yeah? And what have you done that’s so special? Nothing. Elena surpasses you. Your only status in life comes from being her sister._

“What’s this get up? Rebel without a cause? Biker chic come trailer park hooker?”

Snapping back to the obsessed stalker, Margaret snarled, “I don’t dress to impress.”

He circled her, eyes dropping to slither over her body, as he said, “Ah, but I hear you undress to impress …” He met her eyes, flashing her a hungry grin. His voice dropped to an intense whisper, “And I would really like to impress you. Would you like to be impressed by me?”

Revolted, Margaret threw the box into her cart, and walked away from him, trying to regain some control over her rage. She grabbed a watermelon from the fruit racks, not stopping till she reached the checkout. She knew he followed her at a distance.

As she unloaded her stuff from her basket she saw Tyler out the corner of her eye, watching him watching her. In his hand he held a clear bottle with blue liquid inside. He caught up with her and stood behind her in, as if queuing.

The conveyer-belt moved her stuff towards the shop assistant who was blindly flashing the bar codes with a laser gun. Margaret went to the opposite end and filled two plastic bags with her aunts’ groceries. As she put the last thing in and was about to pay, a clear bottle with blue vodka rolled down to knock her knuckles.

Startled she looked up, meeting Tyler’ eyes, daring her to take it. She turned to the assistant and barked, “This is not mine – I’m not paying for it! I’m not even old enough!”

The middle-aged woman sneered at her, turned to face Tyler, and took the thin wad of notes he was offering her. “Thanks for shopping at Hol-Cart,” her nasal voice droned at Tyler, who nodded.

Margaret stared at Tyler, who was chuckling low, moving towards her slowly. She grabbed her shopping bags and pulled them behind her, protesting, “Hey! This is my stuff! If you want it, go find it yourself!”

Tyler was backing her up, picking up the abandoned bottle by the neck he advanced on Margaret. She bumped the wall, and gave it a glance for its traitorous existence. Tyler’s eyes wandered over her again, and grinned, running his tongue hungrily over his teeth. “I don’t want the food,” he murmured softly, as if to calm a spooked horse. “Think of it as a gift … all I ask in return …”

Terrified now, Margaret snarled, “I don’t want you paying for my food!”

“… Is that you let me drive you home.” He finished silkily, secrets in his eyes and anticipation in his smile.

Margaret took a deep breath as if to shout obscenities at him, dug a hand in her pocket and yanked out a twenty dollar note. She threw the notes at him, and hissed, “I wouldn’t ride with you even if you had more money than Bill Gates!”

She had time to see a dark, dangerous look in his eyes before the turned away and strode out the doors. She knew he was following her. She could see him reflected in the glass.

She was starting to panic, wondering what he might do, and walked faster. She cut across the parking lot, then between the daffodils planted on the bit of dirt between lot and sidewalk, hearing behind her his heavy boots. Cars sped past on the road, their headlights glaring in the dying light, no one caring about anything but getting home for the day.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she whispered, trying to stay calm. He wouldn’t do anything, she tried to reassure herself. He wouldn’t dare.

Oh, God, he was getting closer…

One of the cars passing her flashed its breaking lights, pulling over to the side. It was low and black and familiar. She wanted to run to it, but didn’t, keeping up her brick walk. As she approached, the electric window on the passenger’s side slid down, and she saw her dark haired saviour leaning over to look though it.

“Hey, Margaret. I saw you and wondered –”

She didn’t wait for him to finish – she opened the door and slid in fast enough Damon had to pull back fast or catch a shopping bag across the face. She slammed the door, and said, “Go.”

He raised an eyebrow, but revved the powerful engine and slid back into the traffic. His dark eyes went to his rear-view, and his lips pressed together. “Tyler. He never changes.”

Margaret didn’t say anything, looking down at her bags. Tyler was really starting to scare her. She looked across at Damon, and said, “Thanks for pulling over.”

He glanced at her and gave her a wicked smile. “Well, my name does mean ‘savour.’”

Margaret tilted her head, nonplussed. “What? Really?”

He froze, as if he’d been caught out, then smiled again, even dirtier than the first. “Can’t you tell a line when you here one? No wonder Tyler goes for you.”

Margaret groaned and looked out of the windscreen. “You’re terrible.”

“Oh, yes,” he purred, his tone making her skin shiver.

She swallowed, and tried to ignore it. She wet her lips and said, “Um… so, where are you going?”

“Back to Mrs. Flower’s boarding house. I’m staying there while I finish my business here.”

“Sooo… where have you come from? Just now, I mean.”

“Visiting an old acquaintance,” he murmured softly. His eyes glanced at hers, and smiled. “That girl you were with today. Who was she?”

“Oh, Zoë. She’s my friend, just back from Europe.”

“Is she now?” his voice was low, and predatory almost.

“Why? Planning on asking her out or something? You know she’s a minor, like me.”

He shook his head, then pulled over. Margaret looked out and saw her house. It had been a fast ride. She reached for the door handle, but felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked back a Damon.

“Some people are more dangerous than they let on.”

Who was he warning her against? Tyler… or himself? “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, grinning. She wasn’t sure she was pleased he was worried about her – he was another one who thought of Elena when he looked at her. But it was nice to think it was for her.

“Thanks, Damon… see you!” She got out, and slammed the door. He revved the engine and was gone in a few seconds. She went to the front door and – after a moments struggle with the bags, got out her key and let herself in.


End file.
